


Though this be madness

by arts_and_letters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-The Empty Hearse, Sherlock in Exile, Sort of hurt/comfort, definitely some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has spent the past year traveling the back roads of Europe and Asia on his mission to dismantle the last of Moriarty's criminal network. When the isolation finally becomes too much for him to bear, he turns to John, who has always found a way to be there for Sherlock when he needs it the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to get the rest of this story posted within the next week or so. It's all pretty much written except for some last minute edits/formatting/etc. 
> 
> The title of this work is taken from the line in Hamlet: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in‘t.”

  

It’s been almost a year. 

A year in exile.                  

A year without speaking to—or even setting eyes on—anyone from his other life. 

The life of London. 

The world of Baker Street. 

It all feels so far away.   

And it is. There are thousands of miles and many months between them.

Mycroft sends word periodically—although they never speak—only the passing of cryptic messages and the occasional package—but now, there hasn’t been word from Mycroft for days, maybe weeks. Sherlock no longer bothers keeping track. 

 _He’s probably busy saving the world. Or maybe destroying it. Hard to tell, really._

He moves around so frequently—sometimes staying in an abandoned flat—maybe a neglected homeless shelter—other times he’s on the street, although not if Mycroft can help it—that on those rare occasions when he actually gets any sleep at all, he often wakes, not knowing where he is.

And on those mornings, when he first opens his eyes, he doesn’t bother trying to orient himself to where he is that day. All he knows is that it isn’t Baker Street. Every other detail is just unnecessary data. 

It’s not as if lack of sleep is a new experience for Sherlock, and it has always been his custom not to eat on cases.

Now, though, his whole life has become a case, so he rarely eats at all. And there’s no one here—no John, no Mrs. Hudson—to fuss over him, to tell him he’s far too thin, to bring him tea and biscuits and watch over him until he eats.

He’s always been on the slender side—to Mycroft’s envy, of course—but now he’s gone from lean to—well, skeletal, really. 

 _How appropriate. I am a dead man after all._  

But there’s no one else here to see him, and he doesn’t bother looking in a mirror most days if he can help it.

This is just the price of a year spent tracing the back alleys of Europe and Asia. 

But lately, the lack of food, the lack of sleep—it’s been getting to him, if he’s completely honest. 

And he is—honest, that is. After all, there’s no one left for him to lie to. 

Sometimes, he feels his hands shake, his vision blurs, the world starts to tilt—and so he finally gives in— 

 _Time to feed the transport._  

But he never stops resenting it. 

He used to be a machine. A machine that powered his brain—the only part of him that ever really mattered. 

But now, he’s just a man. A man who gets hungry and tired. 

And lonely. 

So he pushes away the hunger and the fatigue—tries to lock the loneliness away in the furthest reaches of his mind—or better still, delete it all together. 

But his mind—like his body—is no longer completely under his control. 

It had been easier before, when he didn’t know what he lacked. He was on his own—always—the only way he knew how to be. 

But then a strange, small, brave soldier walked into his life, and for the first time Sherlock Holmes—the world’s only consulting detective—had a friend. 

A friend. He never wanted—never needed—anything of the sort, but now, even a year into exile, he feels the emptiness inside of himself. Where once he could go days without speaking to a soul, now he feels it so acutely— _loneliness_ —and it hurts.                                                                                          

He wonders if John thinks of him often—if he’s gone back to visit his grave—if he’s still living in Baker Street—if he’s found another friend—if he’s found another woman—if he’s angry—still grieving—if he ever visits Molly, or Lestrade. 

Does he still check on Mrs. Hudson, even if he’s left the flat?  
  
Of course, of course he does. John is nothing if not loyal. His sense of duty defines him. 

He can't deny that he misses London and Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Even Molly _—_ although not Mycroft, of course. 

But the person he misses most—the one he can’t seem to do without—is John. 

He tries to ignore it—this ache, the sadness—tries to wall it off in the far corners of his mind—tries to bury it and then forget where he hid it. 

But all those attempts to extinguish the feelings—the memories—only make them burn brighter—and instead of disappearing into the vastness of his mental hard drive, they take over.

Now, what was once a mind palace has atrophied—the stairs, the hallways, the vaulted ceilings—all of it has collapsed into itself and reformed—into something smaller and grander all at once.  
  
Where there was once a castle in the mind of Sherlock Holmes, there is now a single room—a living area with a sofa and two chairs, a fireplace and a skull on the mantle—ornate wall paper, two windows that look out onto nothing— 

And then of course, there’s a man. 

John.

His friend—the only one. 

The one he left behind.  

 

 

Although he tries not to do it too often, occasionally he lets himself wander into his mind “flat”— _what a banal term—_ and they sit in their chairs, and they talk like they once did. Or they play Cluedo together, because for some reason, John was never one for Operation. 

It’s almost enough. 

But it’s only ever at the conclusion of his latest manhunt—in the quiet of the night hours, when he’s completely alone—that he lets himself disappear into this little sanctuary.

He knows it’s not real. Of course he does. 

But it feels so real. When he focuses hard enough, turns the laser like focus of his brain onto itself—and it’s easy in a way. He knows it all so well.  
  
He can smell it—the apartment, the fire, John _—_ and he hears John’s voice—and it’s been so long since he’s really had this. 

But he keeps it wrapped up—under control—until the cracks begin to form, and he can’t keep it contained any longer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter serves as a kind of prelude to the rest of the story. The main plot gets underway in Chapter 2. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be extra awesome!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has spent the past year traveling the back roads of Europe and Asia on his mission to dismantle the last of Moriarty's criminal network. When the isolation finally becomes too much for him to bear, he turns to John, who has always found a way to be there for Sherlock when he needs it the most.

 

It was a stupid—idiotic—miscalculation that left him in this current predicament.

Stupid. So stupid.

Could be the sleep deprivation. Or the lack of food.

Or maybe it’s just that his already tenuous impulse control and self-preservation instinct have become even weaker than they were before. After all, the only people who matter already think he’s dead.

But whatever the reason, he made a mistake—

“Can I get that in writing? I, Sherlock Holmes, made a mistake.”

“Yes, John, I’ll be sure to include it in the last will and testament that I should probably be writing at this very moment.”

He miscalculated, and now he’s been shot—there’s blood, seeping through the layers of clothes—but he managed to drag himself back to his latest bolt hole—fortunately, it wasn’t far, and it’s late enough that he could slip through the back streets unnoticed.

But now—now he doesn’t know what to do, and he can feel his strength fading away with every passing second.

And that’s when John came to his rescue.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you got shot, you bloody idiot.”

“What an apt obscenity to use, given the fact that I am in fact drenched in my own blood.”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be making jokes.”

John looks as pained as Sherlock feels.

“Sherlock, you’re dying."

“I know.”

And he does. He can feel it, in the way his heart beats faster and lighter, the way his head swims, the way he has to fight for each breath—

With that in mind—feeling the walls close in on him, he tries to say it—

“It’s good—I’m glad—“

But even in the safety of his own mind, Sherlock can’t say the words.

Fortunately—in this place, with this John—he doesn’t have to.

“I know.”

John favors him with a small, sad smile, but then the smile fades, and the sadness deepens, as he adds—

“But Sherlock—I’m not really here.”

Those words—they hurt—he feels it in his chest and his throat—every other part of him aches too—the blood is warm, but the rest of him is so, so cold—and he’s so tired—all he wants is just to let go—he’s already a dead man after all—

But he can see the look on John’s face—the look of anger that only John can convey in those moments when he lets the mask slip, and the soldier takes hold.

“No, Sherlock, you don't get to die, not like this. You don’t get to die with me still thinking that you threw yourself off a building. You have to live.”

He wants to argue, but he can’t. Not with John. Not about this.

So instead, he asks,

“How?”

And John softens. Now he’s the doctor: efficient, competent, clinical.

“We need to locate the source of the bleeding and find the worst of the damage. Take off your shirt if you can—”

Even though he feels himself fading away with every passing second, Sherlock can’t restrain himself from one more retort—

“Trying to get me to undress, John? People will talk.”

And John—steadfast, patient—indulges him—

“They do little else.”

And the reminder of that night—the terror—of finding John wrapped in explosives—the relief—and then the fear again—and the knowledge that John, without pause, without reservation, was willing to give his life—

It’s enough—enough to give Sherlock the strength to fight back against the pain—there is so much pain—god it hurts—as he clumsily pulls off his shirt—looks down at his chest—to find the source—

And there it is. A small hole in his left shoulder, just below the clavicle.

He stares at it with detachment.

“So much blood for such a small hole.”

“You may have nicked a small artery. You’re lucky, though. With a location like that, it could have been much worse.”

“Yes, lucky me.”

John chooses not to respond to that. He’s still in Dr. Watson mode, so instead, he asks—

“Is there a hole on the other side?”

Sherlock tries to crane his neck, but his spine is too stiff, so—even as his gut twists with the pain—he reaches over his shoulder with his right hand—probing the area of his left shoulder blade—doing his best to ignore the pain—until he can tell—

“No there doesn’t seem to be.”

“Okay, that’s probably for the best. Should be easier to stop the bleeding this way. Although, without any way to take the bullet out—well, we’ll have to manage.”

Sherlock should know—he should have known how to handle this—but in this moment he can’t. He needs John—couldn’t do this without him anymore.

“What should I do?”

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Mycroft sent some things—”

“Where is it?”

“No idea. I probably burned it, like I do with most of my Mycroft-affiliated possessions.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Well, maybe if someone hadn’t taken up permanent residence in my mind palace, I might be able to.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

John's expression is at first sheepish, before turning thoughtful—

“Where would you have been when you got the package?”

“Usually Mycroft’s packages magically appear under the kitchen sink. I still haven’t figured out how he manages that.”

“And you probably would have opened it right away—”

“And immediately disposed of it.”

“Yes, but you’re still you, Sherlock. Your version of ‘disposing’ of things usually involves putting them in the closest place where you don’t have to see them, like—”

“The fridge!”

Fortunately, he’s already in the kitchen—bleeding all over the wooden table—so he only has to drag himself a few feet—open the fridge—and there it is.

“Brilliant deduction, John.”

“Can I also get that in writing?”

“Hmm, I think not. After all, you can’t really take credit for this. You’re still just a figment of my imagination—”

“So really, you were calling yourself brilliant. Well, good to see nothing’s changed.”

“Actually it has. Usually you would be the one praising my mental prowess.”

“I’m saving it up for a time when you didn’t nearly bleed out because of your own carelessness.”

“Your bedside manner needs improvement, John.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Well, there’s a reason only one of us is a doctor.”

“And a soldier.”

“Yes, of course. You killed people.”

“But only on the bad days.”

“Are there ever any good days in Afghanistan?”

John gives Sherlock an exasperated—but fond—look.

“Fair point.”

They’re silent after that, for a few long moments—and it’s comfortable enough that Sherlock can almost forget the hole in his body—until he feels another stab of pain, and looks down, with a grimace, but then a moment later, he his switches to a lighter tone.

“So John, you do know what this means, don’t you?”

“That you’ve officially lost your mind?”

Clearly John’s thoughts are moving in a different direction.

“No, the bullet wound. In my left shoulder.”

Sherlock pauses, for effect, and then—

“We’re twins.”

John only deems that comment worthy of a quick glare and a weary shake of his head, and then he’s back to Dr. Watson.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

And so just like that, John coaches him through cleaning the area, packing it with gauze, and dressing the wound—

“This would hurt a lot less if the bandages weren’t so cold.”

“I hope you remember this the next time you put your first aid kit in the fridge.”

“I wasn’t expecting to actually need it.”

“You’re really dense for a genius.”

“You should be nicer to me. I do have a bullet hole in my shoulder.”

—And although Sherlock’s first aid attempt isn’t perfect, already the flow of blood has slowed significantly.

While Sherlock could never be described as ‘compliant,’ nevertheless, when John urges him to drink plenty of water—you lost a lot of blood, need to rehydrate—and forces him to eat some crackers—this is not the time for starving yourself—he does it all, without complaint. Or, at least without much complaint.

“You should go to bed now. Get some rest. I know you haven’t been sleeping lately.”

Sherlock would object, if only for appearance’s sake, but after hearing those words, he realizes that he is so tired. Every muscle in his body is crying out for relief. So with a shrug, he says, “You’re the doctor.”

And—with great effort—he pushes himself up from his current spot on the kitchen floor and stumbles his way into the living area where he’s about to throw himself down on the sofa before John interferes—

“Nope, bed for you. You’re going to be sore enough in the morning without spending the night on that thing.”

Too tired to object—and not wanting to acknowledge the wisdom in those words—Sherlock redirects his steps towards the bedroom, and once there, he prepares to throw himself on top of the still made bed—

“Under the covers, Sherlock. You don’t want to spend the rest of the night shivering, do you?”

“You’re starting to sound like Mycroft.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I guess I’ll just shut up then.”

Those words sting more than Sherlock would have even expected. Fortunately, John didn’t really mean them.

“Just try to get some sleep.”

Sleep. It’s never sounded so appealing, even as he crawls under the scratchy covers, and lies down on his right side, pain radiating out from the bullet wound in his left shoulder.

The adrenalin is finally fading, leaving a hollow feeling in his chest—and so he allows himself to imagine the bed dipping down, John sitting beside him—on top of the covers, not to sleep, just to watch over him—a nighttime vigil—and he can almost feel the warmth of another body—the comfort of that presence—John, his John—and because none of this is real, because it’s only happening in his head, he allows himself to say—

“Stay with me.”

And in this time and place, John knows just how to respond—

“Always.”

Even though none of this is real, it’s close enough to let him drift off peacefully into sleep.

 

 

“Sherlock, this isn’t up for discussion.”

“Apparently it is, as we are currently discussing it.”

“You don’t have a choice. You have to do this. You won’t even have to talk to him. Just send out one of your secret messages—”

“I refuse to ask Mycroft for his assistance in this matter. He would never let me hear the end of it. He might even drag me back to London.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

Sherlock can’t answer that. The truth is so simple and so complicated all at once. Yes, it would be catastrophic. He hasn’t finished the work. He has to finish this work. He can’t return until he knows that they will be safe. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—he has to protect them at any cost.

But that doesn’t stop him from desperately wanting to return to his former life in London.

So he doesn’t respond. He just stares silently and sullenly out the window.

For his part, John returns to the topic of their original argument.

“You need to tell Mycroft that you require medical attention. We were able to manage the triage well enough, but you still have a bullet lodged somewhere in your left shoulder, and the last thing we need is for you to slip into sepsis in a third world country. I know you hate asking for help—”

“That’s patently false. I frequently asked for your help in sending text messages, bringing me tea, running my errands—”

“Yes, fine, you’re perfectly capable of asking for help doing tasks that are trivially easy for you to accomplish yourself. That doesn’t change the fact that getting you to ask for help when you actually need it is nearly impossible.”

Sherlock can’t argue with that, so he just returns to petulant silence.

“Please, Sherlock. Even if you don’t want to do this for yourself, do it for me. You know I won’t be able to stop worrying until you do.”

John’s plea might be enough to shake Sherlock’s resolve except—

“Is that really supposed to sway me, considering you are in fact a fabrication of my own brain?”

“If I was actually there—”

“Were. 'If I were actually there.' No one remembers to use the subjunctive case anymore.”

“You’re a pedantic ass when you’re not feeling well.”

“Bravo, John. Have you been reading dictionaries in my absence?”

“Piss off, Sherlock.”

“You first.”

“You really are impossible when you’re in pain.”

“If you think I’m difficult, you should see Mycroft. He whines like a colicky baby when he’s the least bit under the weather.”

“I really hope I never have the opportunity to experience that. But getting back to my original point—”

“Really, John—”

“If I were there myself, in the flesh, what do you think I would do?”

“We’d have this same argument, and then you’d probably end up contacting Mycroft yourself.”

“And if I didn’t have a way of getting in touch with him?”

“You’d probably knock me out and drag me to the doctor yourself.”

“Yes, but if I were forced to resort to less violent methods—”

“Then you’d probably try to guilt me into it.”

“And what would your response be?”

“I’d scoff at your sentimentalism and paltry attempts at emotional manipulation, and then I’d do what you ask, because as much as I tend to disregard the well being of others, I never really liked to see you suffer on my account.”

In response to that, John just crosses his arms and waits.

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it. And while I’m at it, do you have any other onerous tasks you’d like to foist onto me?”

“No more smoking until you’re healed up.”

“But John, this Neanderthal country doesn’t sell nicotine patches. How am I supposed to take down deeply entrenched criminal networks—”

“You’ll find a way to manage, Sherlock. You always do.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome. Now get in touch with Mycroft, and then we can watch some crap telly together.”

For once in his life, Sherlock does exactly as he’s told, and despite his natural instinct to analyze everything, he tries not to question the way in which John has returned to his life, because now that he’s here, Sherlock can’t imagine continuing on any other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed the second chapter of this story! One of my favorite parts of the Sherlock series is the relationship between Sherlock and John: their shared sense of humor, the chemistry between them, the subtle ways that they show affection for each other. I hope that I'm doing a decent job of capturing that in here, even though the structure is a little unconventional.
> 
> If you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be awesome. I always appreciate getting any type of feedback. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has spent the past year traveling the back roads of Europe and Asia on his mission to dismantle the last of Moriarty's criminal network. When the isolation finally becomes too much for him to bear, he turns to John, who has always found a way to be there for Sherlock when he needs it the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter of the story includes brief description of illegal drug use. It's quick and not very graphic, but I've marked the start of that section with an asterisk, so you can skip/skim as you feel is appropriate.
> 
> Buckle up, everyone! Angsty times are ahead for our hero...

 

He knows that it’s not real—of course he does—but after that night, he can’t let go of what has suddenly become the one thing that keeps him from falling apart at the seams. 

When the boredom becomes too much—when he comes up against the limit of his physical abilities—when he starts to push his neglect of his own well being too far—when the loneliness builds and the walls start to cave in— 

All he has to do is turn to John. 

John, who waits patiently for him in their mind flat, ready to counsel, encourage, chastise, and advise as necessary. 

And although this is not the most conventional method for surviving extended exile, it is working for him, and Sherlock has never been interested in conventions anyway. 

But sometimes—sometimes, there are moments where it all caves in, and he’s faced with the stark reality of everything that he’s missing.   

It is always something small that sets him off at first. 

One time, it was the warmth of contact with another person.

He was dashing through the streets, trying to catch a suspect he had been tracking for days, when he was sent sprawling across the pavement by a car that slid to a stop just moments too late to avoid contact.

Although he made it through the incident without injury, it took him a few moments to get his wits about him, and in the meantime, a kind stranger—god how he hates those people—who witnessed the accident reached down to help him up—and he was forced to feel the warmth of skin against skin—so real, so undeniable—the presence of another person—and suddenly everything was thrown into stark relief.

The feel of the pavement beneath him—so solid, so real—the sounds of the busy street so loud—the colors of the world so vivid—and the little sanctuary he hollowed out in his mind seems so pallid and frail in comparison. 

It was all he could do to keep the nausea at bay long enough to stumble into the closest back alley before getting sick. 

It took a full 72 hours for John to return that time.  

Some time after that first incident, it happens again.

He’s sitting in an outdoor café, dark sunglasses on, a nondescript hat, hair cut short and a bit of stubble for good measure—and he should be watching his latest mark, but instead his attention is drawn over and over to a table a few spots over, where two women have spent the last two hours laughing and chatting.

They’re not a couple, he’s sure of that—after all, no gay couple would be so overtly friendly and affectionate in this particular country—but they have the kind of unrestrained intimacy that only grows from the closest of relationships, romantic or otherwise. 

He catches only some of their conversation, but he doesn’t need to hear the words. He can read it all in their body language—the way their posture and gestures unconsciously mirror each other, the perfect balance of their tones and conversational speeds, the jokes and looks clearly meant for only the two of them, the casual touches—on the arm, to say look at this—reaching out to fix the other woman’s collar without asking for permission first—one of the clearest signs of intimacy that doesn’t involve actual exchanges of bodily fluid. 

And as Sherlock watches and listens, he can’t help but think that in another time and another place, someone else could have been watching him and John as they perform a similar dance of intimacy and closeness and caring that doesn’t need any words to be felt. 

It’s this, more than anything, that seems to shatter his fragile equilibrium. What these two women have is so real, and what he has—well, it’s nothing more than a conversation between two parts of himself, no more real than the imaginations of a schizophrenic mind—even less true, because he knows without a doubt that his particular escapist delusions are not and never will be true.

 

  

Eight days have passed since that afternoon in the café, and there has been no sign of John since. He tries to retreat into his mind flat, but there’s nothing, just a blankness that pushes him out as soon as he tries to dive back in. 

His brain—it begins to tear itself to pieces without the steadying influence of John’s presence, without the anchor to hold himself to the ground. 

He feels like a caged animal—a rabid dog that attacks itself when there is no one else around. 

He needs the silence, the quiet—to be free, if only for a few hours. 

And so—now that it has all come crashing down—he escapes in the only other way he knows how.      
                                                                                           

*   
  
Even in a foreign country, it’s not hard to find heroin—not if you know where to look, and he always does. He tells himself that it’s okay, that he needs this—after all, he has a bullet hole in his shoulder and a black hole in his chest—an emptiness that threatens to swallow him, if he doesn’t find something to fill it, to soothe the pain, to dull the ache. 

And that’s how he comes to find himself here, with his sleeve rolled up, loaded syringe in his hand—and John—his John—is nowhere to be found. 

So he finds the vein—a small pinprick—and then a few minutes later, he feels it—relief. 

Where once there was pain, now there is only a warm buzz—pleasure.

He takes out a cigarette, and smokes it slowly—savoring the feel of the smoke as it slides down his throat—and the peace, the quiet—as the drugs flood his brain. 

John’s nowhere to be found, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s not lonely, not anymore.

He puts out his cigarette and allows himself to sink into the arms of this deep somnolence, as it pulls him down, deeper and deeper into a land of nothing.

He feels no pain. His mind is a blank slate.

Nothing matters. Nothing hurts. 

And in his head, there is only silence. ~~  
~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, John will be back in the next chapter. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far if you have a moment to leave a comment :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has spent the past year traveling the back roads of Europe and Asia on his mission to dismantle the last of Moriarty's criminal network. When the isolation finally becomes too much for him to bear, he turns to John, who has always found a way to be there for Sherlock when he needs it the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter does include a couple sentences that describe an injury that aren’t super graphic but might be unsettling for anyone who is sensitive to that sort of thing, so I’ve marked the beginning and end of that paragraph with an asterisk. Feel free to skip/skim. Also, there’s some extra profanity. John has a very foul mouth.

When you go long enough without sleeping—and it must be a very long time, especially for one already accustomed to long periods of waking—when your days and nights begin to bleed together and your dreams and your nightmares become inseparable from reality—you begin to realize just how frail the separation between madness and sanity really is.

The only sleep Sherlock has gotten in days—maybe weeks—who knows?—has been a couple minutes—maybe an hour—here and there when he nods off after injecting a particularly heavy dose of drugs into his system.

Although at one time that would have been enough, it isn't anymore—not for him, not now, not here.

And while he knows he's here for a reason—there must have been a reason why he torched the life he once had to get lost in a foreign land—there are many days when he can't remember what that reason was.

Where once he was like a bloodhound in pursuit—unwavering in his single-minded purpose of dismantling Moriarty's network—now he's just lost, no scent in sight.

Sometimes he starts to wonder—what would John think of him now?—as he vomits the contents of his nearly empty stomach into the toilet—as he nods off while smoking a cigarette and nearly sets the sofa on fire—but then he pushes the thought away and digs himself deeper into the hole.

There's only down, there's only falling, there's only the silence and oblivion that comes from a needle and a drug, and although some days he manages to pull himself free for a few lonely hours, most of his time is spent pursuing the high—finding the drugs, buying the drugs, taking the drugs—it all feels so good, in a world where anything else feels so painful as to be unbearable—and he wants it to stop—wants to want it to stop—but any remaining impulse control has dissolved, and the line between want and need has disappeared completely.

He can't continue, not like this. He has to find a way to end this spiral into the gutter, but where are you supposed to go after you lose yourself in a drug binge because the only thing that kept you from falling down the rabbit hole was an imaginary person in an imaginary room in your own mind?

This has to end—somehow, someway—probably sooner rather than later—but he's not sure when or how or why—and even if he knew this would assuredly end in disaster, he's not sure he has enough resolve left to fight for any other outcome.

 

 

 

"Sherlock, if you wanted me to come back, couldn't you have come up with something that didn't involve almost getting yourself killed?"

John doesn't even bother trying to conceal the anger in his voice, but Sherlock—lost in the physical pain, the emotional hurt—is undeterred, lashing out with angry words of his own.

"Maybe if you showed up before I ended up in mortal danger—"

"If you hadn't been so busy getting high like the complete and total ass that you are—"

"If you spent more time being a doctor and less time chasing around normal women who you could never hope to sustain a relationship with—"

"Christ, Sherlock—Just shut up for once in your life. You just got stabbed in a fight with a drug dealer, and you're really going to start in on my dating habits?"

"I nearly got stabbed by a drug dealer—it's only a scratch—and you started it."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you—"

"No, stop this now. Just stop talking for thirty seconds so I can figure out how to help you. And for fuck's sake, put some pressure on that 'scratch.'"

Normally, during a fight like this, Sherlock would have dramatically thrown himself onto the couch and curled up into a ball to stare petulantly at the back of the sofa until John relented and apologized for something that is not really his fault, but the gash in his side cannot be so easily ignored, especially when he looks down and sees the tear in his shirt and the blood seeping around the edges of the fabric.

"That was one of my favorite shirts."

Although John is now clearly making an effort to keep his emotions under control, some of the exasperation still seeps through.

"If you liked it so much, maybe you shouldn't have worn it when you went out to buy heroin from a gang of Eastern European thugs."

"How was I supposed to know they would be so hostile?"

John has never been less amused by Sherlock's attempts at false naiveté.

"Well, I'm no genius consulting detective, and I don't have much experience buying illegal drugs, but even I have the sense not to use my 'brilliant powers of deductions' to taunt drug dealers."

"Some people would say that common sense has never been my strong suit."

"Yeah, and those people would be right. Damn it, Sherlock, some days I wonder what you ever did without me."

The answer comes out before Sherlock has a chance to stop himself—

"Drugs."

And they both cringe at the blunt truth of that one word.

Mercifully, John moves on without commenting further.

"Okay, let's take a look at the damage."

"Trying to get me to undress again?"

"Just take off your damn shirt."

Clearly John is not in the mood for this particular back and forth, but Sherlock can't quite help himself from firing back—

"Well, since you asked so nicely—"

Sherlock pulls off his shirt—sending a new wave of pain coursing through his side as some of the fabric sticks to the edges of the wound—and for the first time takes a moment to assess the damage.

*  
While the bullet hole in his left shoulder was neat, symmetrical, almost surgical—this is a different matter altogether—messy, uneven, like someone took a dull butcher's knife to a piece of meat and gave up partway through—but at least the knife only grazed the outer edge of his right torso, deep enough to open up the flesh, but not so deep as to injure anything important, although it was only the luck of a well-timed dodge that prevented him from ending up with a knife in his gut.

*

Still, something needs to be done about this, but he doesn't know—can't think—his brain feels slow and feeble, and—although the pain isn't helping—he can't deny that the failing of his mental faculties, the tremor in his hands, and the sweat forming on his temple probably have just as much to do with the last of the drugs leaving his system.

"You're going to need steadier hands than that if you're going to sew this up yourself."

"It's not very kind to taunt a dying man."

"You're not dying, Sherlock, not this time, not even close, but it would be best if we could close up this wound. Do you have sutures in the first aid kit?"

"Of course I don't have sutures in the first aid kit. Do you really think Mycroft was planning on having me sew myself up in the event of a drug deal gone wrong?"

"Can you at least check and see?"

Sherlock grumbles and scoffs, but nevertheless does what John suggests.

"Apparently my brother does plan for every eventuality."

"Told you."

"Smug doesn't suit you, John. You should stick with either anger or excessive sympathy. Not everyone can have my range of complex emotional expression."

"Yeah, well thank god not everyone can manage to be such an arrogant—"

"Really, John, don't you think I deserve a little more consideration? After all, it is your fault that I—"

"No, no, no you're not going to go back to trying to blame this on me."

John takes a deep breath, clearly trying to get his anger under control.

"Okay, look, let's stop trying to figure out blame and focus on fixing you up."

Sherlock's never considered himself squeamish—after all, he regularly stores dismembered corpses in the fridge at Baker Street—

"Without any regard for the discomfort of his flatmate."

"You're a doctor. I can't see how a bag of thumbs should put you off your dinner."

"I'm going to ignore that last part and focus on the 'doctor' bit. I need you to do everything I tell you to, exactly as I explain it. It won't take long for us to sew you up."

"By 'us,' you mean 'me.'"

"I'll be here for moral support."

Sherlock prepared to fire back with something about 'too little, too late,' but the expression on John's face is enough to stop him from giving voice to that particular sentiment.

Instead—for one of the first times in his life—Sherlock attempts to listen and obey, although his attempts are only met with partial success.

"This is going to hurt a bit—"

"This already hurts a lot and I haven't even gotten to the part where I'm supposed to sew myself up."

"Yeah, I'm not sure why your brother had the foresight to include sutures but not lidocaine."

"Presumably because he likes to see me suffer. As do you, apparently, since you were so quick to shoot down my idea—"

"Sherlock, there is no way I'm going to agree to you shooting up heroin before sewing your own skin back together."

"Maybe you and Mycroft should start a club for sadists. Actually, this does bolster my long held belief that all practitioners of medicine are secretly sadistic—"

"Please stop stalling. Delaying isn't going to make this hurt any less."

"No, but a heavy dose of opiates would."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock—"

"Really, John, so much profanity—"

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as John's tone shifts from tired and frustrated to quiet and dangerous, each word seething with pent up anger and radiating with a power that is uniquely his.

"You want profanity? Fine, let's talk about the fact that the only reason you have any god damn drugs left to take in the first place is because you pick-pocketed a drug dealer  _after_  he nearly disemboweled you with his knife. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, could you have any less regard for your own well being? Do you ever bother thinking before you launch into your next foolish, self destructive, self-imposed mission? Do you pause for one moment to think about the few people left who still care about you? Does that matter to you at all?"

Suddenly Sherlock very much regrets his attempts at levity, and as the truth behind John's words sinks in, he begins to feel very, very tired, and the effort of remaining upright and conscious starts to feel like more than he can bear.

"John, please—just tell me what to do."

John must have noticed the weariness in Sherlock's voice, and that awareness is enough to curb his anger, at least for the time being.

"Fine, talking can come later. Let's get you patched up."

John steadies himself—a deep breath—and then he continues.

"First you need to clean the area thoroughly with soap and water."

And Sherlock does as he's told, washing the area, following instructions carefully, as John walks him through each step. Although his body is tense and he can't help but bite down hard on his cheek at the pain of the needle in recently torn flesh, it's over faster than expected—only took a few stitches, and now closed, the wound looks much less threatening.

He exhales, feels the tension in his body release, the adrenalin fading—but then, before he can relax into a few moments of calm—

"Sherlock, how could you do this to yourself?"

There is a tightness in John's voice, but Sherlock recognizes it not as anger but sadness, maybe even grief.

"How could you do this to me?"

Sherlock feels more miserable in that moment than he ever thought possible. Ten more stab wounds would be less painful than this conversation. And all he can say is—

"I'm sorry."

It's the most sincere apology he's ever offered, even if it doesn't quite count since he's only talking to himself.

John's expression is sympathetic.

"I know you are."

Although it hardens a moment later when he continues.

"And you're going to be even sorrier very soon, because—listen to me very closely—I don't care what else happens while you're in this godforsaken country. There will be no more drugs."

Sherlock doesn't bother replying to that, although he does glare miserably at John.

For his part, John seems much more cheerful.

"Try to get a good night's sleep. You're going to feel like shit in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there (probably) won't be any more stabbings or shootings for Sherlock after this. And at least John's back!
> 
> I had originally planned to have only one more chapter after this, but I actually may extend the story by an extra chapter or two. I think I might want to take a little more time to explore Sherlock's adventures/experiences pre-The Empty Hearse, especially since in the actual series we only get a few glimpses into what he went through while he was abroad. I'm still doing adjustments to Ch 5, so we'll see.
> 
> I hope you liked this latest installment! Getting feedback on my writing always makes me very happy (whether it's praise or constructive criticism), so if you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be very much appreciated :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been almost a year since I first posted this story! (And just about that long since I updated it...) Although I plan on eventually going in and making some major changes and additions to this story, in light of the fact that I already have two on going WIPs, and I just started a brand new Johnlock story, so I've decided to go ahead and just post the original final chapter that I wrote nearly a year ago. I just didn't feel right leaving this story without a resolution any longer.

 

“I hate everything.”  
  
“Good morning to you too.”  
  
“I hate mornings. I hate sleeping, and I hate being awake. I hate clothing. I hate food. I hate the sun. I hate being inside. I hate all people and most animals. I hate noise. I hate quiet—” 

“I get the picture, Sherlock. You can stop now.” 

“I hate Mycroft. I hate every place that isn’t London—” 

“If you’re trying to annoy me into letting you go back to abusing heroin, it’s not going to work. I don’t care how infuriating you’re trying to be—” 

“And I hate you for making me do this. I hate you even more than—” 

Sherlock doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought though, because he’s suddenly struck by a wave of nausea, and has to race to the toilet to be sick.

God, this is miserable. He’s only eaten a few crackers so there’s not much to bring up, and he mostly just ends up dry heaving, which does nothing to help the ache in his side. 

“Easy does it, Sherlock. You don’t want to pull any stitches.”  
  
“It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose.” 

The understanding and sympathetic look John gives him is almost too much to bear. 

“I know you’re not. Just hang in there, okay? The worst of this will be over soon, and then you can go back to being your usual prickly self.” 

“You really need to work on your pep talks.” 

“Would you like me to switch into full-on Dr. Watson mode?” 

“Not if you don’t want me to start emptying out the contents of my stomach again.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“If you could be a little less smug about all of this, I would very much appreciate it.” 

“Look, why don’t you clean yourself up a bit, and then have a lie down on the sofa for a

little while, turn on the telly, and relax for a little while.” 

“No, John, I need—“ 

He winces a bit as he pushes himself up from the bathroom floor— 

“I need to focus on the work. I’m so close to the end. I would have been finished sooner except—” 

“Except for the drugs. Yeah, I know, but look, Sherlock, just forget about that for now.

What’s done is done, and before you take out another terrorist cell, you need to let your body—and your brain—recover a bit more. I’m the doctor, remember?” 

“As if you would ever let me forget.” 

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Now how about we go catch a good murder mystery. I promise I won’t even complain when you solve the crime in the first two minutes.” 

 

 

After only a few days, the physical symptoms cleared mercifully quickly, but it takes far longer for Sherlock to reach something approaching emotional equilibrium. 

Despite his—well, John’s— best efforts to implement a more regular sleep and eating schedule, Sherlock’s emotions are still amplified and distorted far beyond recognition. He feels like a raw, exposed nerve much of the time, often overwhelmed by uncontrollable feelings that bubble up out of nowhere.

Sometimes it’s anger— 

“Damn it, John, don’t you have a girlfriend who you can fuss over so you can stop stifling me with your misguided caring? I don’t need you—” 

“I’m not going anywhere, because whenever I’m not around, you throw yourself into unnecessarily dangerous situations without any regards for the consequences.”

“Maybe if you were actually here with me—if I didn’t have to do this alone—” 

“Sherlock, if you had asked me to, I would have come with you in a heartbeat.” 

And just like that the anger drains out of him, and his only response is a quiet— 

“I know.” 

Sherlock pauses, before forcing himself to say the next part out loud. 

“That’s why I didn’t ask.” 

He knows that if only he had asked, John would have done it—without complaint or hesitation—but he had to do this alone, couldn’t ask that of John. Besides, he always works better alone—or at least he used to. But that was before everything changed. 

And maybe—maybe that was never true at all. Maybe it was just something that he convinced himself of because he never had any data to prove otherwise.

On days like this, though, a very selfish part of him desperately wishes he had let John come with him, especially in these moments when the anger disappears, the sadness takes hold.

 

 

 

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

He’s embarrassed to find he is on the verge of tears, and he curls up tighter into himself, and although he wants to push John away, he finds himself pulling him closer instead. 

“I know it seems impossible now, Sherlock, but you can get through this.” 

The worst part is that he doesn’t even have the energy to mock John’s empathy like he normally would, because he’s too busy clinging to it like a lifeline. 

“I want the drugs so badly. It’s all I can think about sometimes. Even the work isn’t enough anymore. It’s all so tiresome, and I’m so bored, and this will never end, and I don’t think I’m ever going to see Baker Street again, and it’s not fair—” 

Now the tears do start to fall, and it’s miserable, and he hates this—as he covers his face with his hands, and draws his knees up to his chest— 

And because his brain has become adept at giving him what he most needs, he imagines that John is in the room with him—solid, in the flesh—and he sits down beside Sherlock—rubs soothing circles on his back—lets Sherlock bury his head in his shoulder—whispers quiet encouragement and inane platitudes which Sherlock can barely make out over the sound of his own grief— 

If this were actually happening, Sherlock would never allow himself such weakness, but it’s not, so he does—he allows himself to wallow in his misery and to bask in the comfort of another person—not just anyone, but John—his friend—the first and last true friend he’s ever had— 

It’s enough, enough for him to cling to for now, and when there aren’t any more tears left, he continues to lean against the sofa and pretend that it’s something—someone—else, and he says in a quiet and miserable voice— 

“I just want to go home.” 

“I know you do, Sherlock. But you can’t come back yet. Which is why I came to you.” 

“Except you’re not actually you, and you’re not actually here. You’re just a brilliant facsimile my brain has created to ease the constant ache of my lonely exile. A shadow to keep me on the right side of sanity. Nothing more.”                                                                                                                         

“If I weren’t a figment of your imagination, I would probably be offended by that.” 

“But that’s exactly what you are—a comforting fiction.”               

“This seems real, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then maybe this is good enough, for now.”

 

 

 

And it is—it’s good enough for now. Having John with him even in this form is better than being alone, and escaping into a fantasy is safer that numbing the world by injecting poison into his body. 

“Just figured that one out, did you? Jesus, for a genius you can be remarkably dense.” 

“And for an idiot, on rare occasions you can be remarkably perceptive.”  
  
“You say such sweet things when you’re only spending time inside your head.” 

“You say much smarter things when you spend all your time inside of my mind.”                                                                                                        

“Do you have to have a response to everything?” 

Just to be perverse, Sherlock only answers with a shrug. 

John responds with laughter, although there is a tension in his shoulders indicating that on a different day he might have been inclined to throttle Sherlock instead. 

But that day is not this one, and so at least for a few precious hours, ignores the uncomfortable truth—pushes them outside the limits of his awareness—and basks in his newfound equilibrium

 

 

“John, I just—I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore.” 

“Just a little longer, Sherlock. Mycroft will be here, soon. You know he will. And then you’ll be done. This is all that’s left. You’ll be able to come back—to London—to Baker Street—”

Yes—he could almost feel it—smell it—but what if—what if the life he left behind— 

“I’ll be there, Sherlock. I promise. I never lost faith in you. Not for a moment. Even as Moriarty spun his web of lies—I may be an idiot, but I know you. And I could never forget you. All you have to do is survive this, and then you can come back, and it will be like it was before. We’ll find ourselves a crime—you’ll be brilliant, and you’ll tell me I’m an idiot—” 

“Well you are an idiot—” 

“And I won’t care, because I’ll be so glad to have you back. Please, Sherlock, for me if not yourself, just hang on for a little longer. Come back to Baker Street.” 

Baker Street—still so vivid in his mind—every color, every smell, every piece of wall and floor and ceiling—the furnishings and the decorations—all of it so real and so welcome— 

Yes, he can do it—for John—he can hold on for just a little bit longer—this will all be over—soon—it’s so close he can feel it—Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, John—                                                      

Soon he’ll be back, for good—and it will all be real and it will be the way it was before—John and Sherlock against the world—solving crimes, exposing the idiots of the world. 

At first John might be angry, but he’ll forgive Sherlock as soon as he explains himself—maybe even be grateful for the sacrifices he made—and Sherlock will regale John with tales of his travels abroad—John will listen with rapt attention—maybe even write up some the adventures in his little blog— 

They’ll be together again.

 

 

Less than 48 hours later, Mycroft shows up in disguise and extracts Sherlock from Serbian custody, and just like that, he is whisked back to London, given a new mission, and sent back into the land of the living, clean shaven and clad in his Belstaff. 

And even though this is what he’s been dreaming of every day in exile, suddenly Sherlock is adrift in a world that is unrecognizable from the one he left behind—to a Baker Street without John—and to a friend that may never forgive him. 

It’s almost enough to make him wish he hadn’t returned at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the rather depressing ending, but if you think about it, that's really the fault of Moffat and Gatiss.
> 
> Anyway, although I'm marking this as complete for now, I really do want to eventually post my completely re-worked version, which will include several major new story lines, including some events inspired by "Many Happy Returns." I already have more than 6,000 words written for this new story, but it's not anywhere close to ready to post.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and I'm especially grateful to those who have taken the time to leave feedback. I hope you've enjoyed the story!


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